


skeptics and true believers

by thebrobecks



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Amusement Parks, Angst, Betrayal, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Illness, Mental Instability, Murder, Suicide, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 14:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9076756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebrobecks/pseuds/thebrobecks
Summary: No mature people made their friend spend the night in a supposedly haunted amusement park in the middle of January for losing a bet, unless they were brain dead.Frank decided his friends were brain dead.tw for blood, violence, and death.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hey. this was originally something i wrote for my creative writing class. then, i rewrote it and made it gayer and more violent. here ya go with this stinking pile of trash.  
> title from skeptics and true believer by the academy is...  
> also this is my first attempt at trying to write "romance" so uhm

Frank slams the door of his car as he gets out of it, cursing himself for losing that stupid, immature bet and cursing his stupid, immature friends for making him go through with this _stupid, immature_ punishment.

It wasn’t even like he could have pretended to come here and instead spent the night at his own damn house. Pete—the only one of their little group besides Frank that could even _drive_ , for fuck’s sake—had taken it upon himself to be his chauffeur. At eight the next morning, he’d come back to drive him home and if Frank wasn’t there… well, he’d never hear the end of it.

It wasn’t that he was _scared_ to spend the night in an abandoned amusement park. No, everyone knew the rumors of hauntings were nothing but dumb children’s tales. He was just annoyed, as always. Annoyance was, like, a permanent attribute of his personality. He wasn’t Frank if he wasn’t at least mildly annoyed.

He ignores Pete’s calls to him, assuming he was just reminding him of the rules. Frank wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t going to forget them. Or follow them, for that matter.

The cartoonish clown on the dilapidated sign leers down at him, and he scowls at the faded, peeling hues. His gaze flickers over where the words used to be, though their paint was in just as bad of a condition as the rest of the sign. God, his friends had to be _twelve_. No mature people make their friend spend the night in a supposedly haunted amusement park in the _middle of January_ for losing a bet, unless they were brain dead.

Frank decides his friends were brain dead.

He tells them so in a frustrated text, then locks his phone and shoves it back into his pocket. He was supposed to only use it for ‘emergencies’, but hell if he was going to actually do that.

The gates of the park are cracked open, enough for a person to slip through. That makes sense. Dumb kids or people who thought they would see a ghost went in here constantly. Frank, personally, didn’t believe in ghosts. He thought it was stupid. Once people were dead, they were dead. None of that ‘lingering souls’ bullshit that people spewed. In their great year of 2016, it was ridiculous that some still thought ghosts existed. That was, like, something that the religious nuts of colonial times believed in, or something.

He squeezes through the gap in the wrought iron gates, giving the intricate structures a fleeting glance before he slips past and into the park.

It was dead silent, which, well, no _shit_ , Sherlock. This place had been closed since the seventies. Or was it the eighties? He didn’t know. All most people knew was that the second-rate safety regulations of some of the rides caused a few people—as in, upwards of fifty—to be killed. Obviously, the park had a sunny history.

A thin, wispy fog curled around the old, rotting arcade buildings to his left. It looks creepy, and ominous, and totally uninviting, so Frank decides it's best to go that way.

He shoves his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket as he walked, fiddling with the stray guitar picks he always kept in there. Too bad there isn't an acoustic laying around here somewhere. Though, with how wet and humid this area gets in the summers, any guitar would be garbage in a matter of a week.

Broken glass littered the stonework on the ground, bearing evidence to the fact that people had broken into the arcades. It seemed like a rather pointless act, to Frank. There was nothing to find in an arcade, besides old games and claw cranes with dumb prizes.

Despite himself, Frank steps through one of the sizable holes in the windows into the dark, musty building. Of course; it was just as he expected it to be.

Dusty, dead games—was that Space Invaders over there?—crowd the walls to his left and right, with skeeball lanes and claw cranes filling up the space across from him. In the middle was a maze of air hockey tables, whack-a-mole games, and other things he wasn’t able to name. Then… oh. That was odd.

One of the claw cranes seemed to have fallen over, except it was strategically placed in front of a rusty door. Neon yellow rubber ducks spill out of the machine, giving the scene a despairing air.

Frank wrinkles his brow in lazy confusion. Some idiot probably thought they’d seen a ghost, and decided to hide in whatever was behind that door. God knows if they had ever gotten out.

Actually, now that he thinks about it, the room has a peculiar, metallic scent that the mustiness can't completely mask. That was… kind of gross, actually.

Not wanting to spend any more time in a building with a dead body, Frank steps out of the arcade in a _“fuck this shit, I’m out”_ fashion. He isn't scared, or undeterred from his explorations, but just… mildly perturbed. Going to public school all his life did that to him. After four years of high school, something like a dead body wasn’t something to freak out over. It was unsettling, but not worth more than an “oh, hey, that’s a dead body right there”. Frank was, not to be edgy or anything, simply dead inside.

Whistling an erratic tune—hey, he could probably use this as a riff in a song later—Frank continues on his way with the odd feeling that he's being watched.

Good Lord, was he hallucinating that this place was haunted now? He hopes not, because the rumors about the ghosts that inhabited this park were nothing but rumors made to keep people out. But, that plan seemed to have backfired, because the park was broken into all the time. And, evidently, nobody tried to keep the park locked up anymore.

Some time later—Frank had zoned out in his wanderings, not paying much attention to his surroundings—he was startled half to death by a sudden light blinding his eyes. Cursing, he stops dead in his tracks and lifts an arm over his face to block out the brightness, only to lower it a moment later and squint at the light.

It was nothing but a regular old street lamp, wrought iron covered in flaking pink paint. The bulb inside the lamp was audibly buzzing, its light giving off slight flickers. Cobwebs dangled from the lamp, wobbling in the wintery breeze.

He flinches as the rest of the lights down the pathway began to light in a methodical manner, one after the other until the pathway is bathed in weak, yellow light. Frank could feel a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead, but he didn’t back away. These lights had to be on a schedule, right? At a certain time, they would come on. That _had_ to be it. Definitely not ghosts messing with the electricity. If they could even do that.

Steeling himself, Frank furrows his brow and continues on. A few lights weren’t going to scare him away, even though now he actually was sort of shaken.

Nothing happened, even as he passes the last set of lights. Just heavy, irritating silence. Frank scowls, grumbling out a clipped “are you fuckin’ kidding me?” before setting off with renewed resolve into the next section of the park.

It was dark again, and Frank could just barely make out the shapes of yet more buildings. He thought they were restaurants, from what he could make out of the white counters and striped overhangs. He veers closer to one in mild curiosity. It looks to be a regular old fast food restaurant.

Frank tugs a flashlight out of one of his jacket’s inner pockets, switching it on with a click. The interior of the shack-like building was illuminated in ghostly LED light, showing him nothing interesting besides a rusty set of deep friers and what looks like a grill. And the old fridge shoved into a corner, rows upon rows of vintage glass Coca-Cola bottles lining the shelves.

That was a rather compelling find. Old Coke bottles aren't exactly few and far between, but they could probably bring him a few bucks if he sold them. Or, he could show them to his friends and dare one of them—probably Pete—to drink it.

Shrugging, Frank sets the flashlight on the counter and vaults over, not bothering to find its entrance.

Of course, though he was rather observant, he fails to notice the dried, matte brown stains smattered across the shack’s floor. If he’d seen them, he might not have decided to continue doing what he was doing.

Being the bumbling, unshakeable idiot he is, though, Frank makes his way over to the refrigerator and pulls its door open, grabbing four of the bottles.

A movement in the corner of his eye makes him freeze, for it appears to be of humanoid stature; however, when he looks, the shack is empty save for him.

Something hits his head while he isn't paying attention. It wasn't a hard blow, more like a warning tap that left him startled and skittering away from the refrigerator. Frank curses, the bottles nearly slipping from his arms as he looks upon his attacker; a… levitating Coke bottle? What the fuck.

He blinks, but the bottle is still there, as if it's waiting for him to make a move. God, he was losing it. This park is messing with his sanity. Shaking his head, Frank went to take a step towards the counter. The bottle follows his movement, hovering closer with every move he makes.

He pauses, eyes glued to the object, before bolting for the counter. He lets the bottles in his arms fall to the ground and shatter, old Coke splattering over his shoes and jeans. Frank slides back over the counter, the rogue bottle whacking his back the whole way and somehow not breaking. He swipes the flashlight from the surface as he careens over it, and hits the ground running. There was no more caring about what his friends would say; he has to get out of this damned park before he truly loses his mind.

Much to his dismay, even _more_ weird things start happening as he runs. Shadows cross his path mere strides before him, causing his feet to fumble, and the temperature drops uncharacteristically low for a Californian January. Lights snap on and off, throwing off his vision and screwing with his mind. The wind picks up, too, carrying disembodied whispers with it that he can't decipher.

Frank takes back what he said about not being scared earlier. If he was one of those goats that fainted when alarmed, he would have fallen unconscious ten times over by now. Basically, he was scared fucking shitless.

Just as he could see the entrance of the park, with that creepy clown and the big, iron gates, something—no, _somebody_ —steps out in front of him, and he barrels into them at full speed.

Gasping and choking on his own breath, Frank scrambles away from the wriggling, firm, indignant body under him and gets to his feet, backing away with a defensive stance.

His eyes meey with those of a real, flesh-and-bone human being, with pale, flawless skin and long, stringy black hair. The stranger gives Frank an almost withering glare, then makes some sort of gesture with his hands. All of a sudden, the freakish things that had been happening just  _stopped_. The wind dies down, the temperature rises, and the lights stop flickering. Even the floating Coke bottle, which had somehow followed him all the way here, goes still, then drops to the ground and shatters. The guy on the ground grins, then gets to his feet in a fluid motion.

“Well. Seems you’re already _falling_ for me.” His voice is light, and lilting, but there is a hint of something Frank isn't able to identify.

Narrowing his eyes, Frank clenches his teeth. “Don’t fucking joke with me,” he snaps, glaring at the man, who is considerably taller than him.

His grin only widens. It's creepy. “Ooh, edgy,” he crows. “‘Nyway, what brings a pretty boy like you here, short stack?”

Frank crosses his arms. “First of all, I’m not a pretty boy. Second, I lost a damn bet, and I was just about to leave, if you’ll excuse me. And I’m not that fuckin’ short.” He makes a move to go past the guy, but is stopped by a cold hand wrapping around his upper arm.

The guy was looking at Frank with a pout. “Leaving so soon? But you haven’t even met my friends yet…” He seems genuinely upset.

Frank scoffs. “Good Lord dude, if you freakin’ insist… But you gotta tell me who you are first. For all I know, you’re gonna drag me somewhere and murder me.” The man’s eye twitches as Frank says the word ‘murderer’, but he assumes it was out of indignation.

“Well,” he drawls, wild grin back on his face. “You can call me Gee. I can control the ghosts. They’re not usually as mean as they were tonight. But you took their Coke. They don’t like when people take their Coke,” he—Gee—says, all matter-of-factly like that was a perfectly valid explanation. “But, now _you_ gotta tell me who you are. _You_ could be a murderer.”

Frank pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, willing himself not to scream. “Name’s Frank. I don’t, y’know, control ghosts, but I play guitar. Can we get this over with now?”

Gee’s eyes light up at the mention of guitars. “You can play guitar? That’s so cool! You should play me something, there’s a guitar in one of the gift shops and I kept it safe because I wanted to learn but I never ended up doing that so it’s just sitting there. I like to sing sometimes, but it’s not as fun without music,” he babbles, looking so excited that Frank couldn’t just say no. Gee is giving him puppy eyes, for God’s sake. A grown man. Giving Frank Iero puppy eyes.

“I—sure, dude, whatever. But, um, maybe show me your… friends first?”

He nods, and then turns so his back is facing Frank. He makes another odd gesture, a different one this time, and suddenly the area is filled with nearly transparent specters. They're all dressed in old-looking clothing, all  staring at Frank like he has three heads.

“Are… these…the..?” Frank couldn’t even form sentences, he was too amazed and startled and terrified all at the same time. But Gee seems to get what he was saying, for he nods fervently.

“Yeah!” he exclaims, still smiling. “But, don’t ask them about it. It’s a sensitive topic. That’s how it is with all ghosts, actually. It makes sense, right? Nobody wants to talk about their own death.”

Frank just nods. “Y’know… I didn’t believe in ghosts when I came here. I thought the hauntings were just a dumb rumor,” he mumbles. Some of the specters flicker out of view as he speaks, as if angered.

“Nope!” Gee chirps. “That was all us! But, some kids probably exaggerated. We never actively hurt anybody. Most people that got hurt did it trying to get away and blamed it on us. We don’t try to kill people, either. Just scare them out of the park, because they shouldn’t be here anyway. Only one person has died in here since the closing. Right, William?” He looks pointedly at a tall, willowy figure to his right with dark hair down to his shoulders.

William turns his head, revealing soft, almost girlish features that are contorted into an expression of betrayal and offense. “I told you not to talk about that, Gee,” he whispers, voice high and pretty. Gee shrugs.

“Alright. Frankie, do you wanna go play that guitar now?” Gee suggests, the nickname coming out suspiciously easy.

Frank lets it slide, though. This guy obviously has problems. “Uh, yeah, sure.” He tries to sound relaxed and calm, though his voice betrays him.

Gee’s forehead creases a little, but he grabs Frank’s arm and begins towing him off into the path he’d come from. Startled, he backpedals for a moment before letting himself be dragged off to God knows where.

“Okay, so, it’s gonna take a little while to get there, because this place is like a maze, but I know where I’m going, so don’t worry,” Gee chatters, his voice upbeat and happy.

“Gee, you don’t need to hang on to my arm the whole time.”

“Yes I do,” he asserts. "You might run away now that I’ve shown you my friends because you’re scared. A lot of people run away long before now, but you seem nice, Frankie. I don’t want you to run away.” He starts to sound sad, but Frank is just getting more and more wary of this guy and his mental state.

“Alrighty, then. But, can you stop calling me Frankie? I’m not, like, ten anymore,” he grumbles.

Gee shakes his head, looking back with a wild, lustrous look in his eyes. “It suits you.”

Frank gives him a mocking offended glare. “So you’re saying I look ten?”

“Yep!” Gee starts to jog, now, and Frank has no choice but to pick up the pace. The guy has a grip like iron.

It seems to take them hours to get to where Gee was taking them. The guy kept up a conversation the whole time, never letting silence fall between them. Despite himself, Frank started to grow more relaxed and comfortable. Gee seemed harmless, really. He was kind of creepy, sometimes, what with his lopsided grin and unfocused eyes, and greasy hair and unwavering happiness, but he was… also kind of cute, Frank would admit. Gee looked at Frank like he was the best thing in the world, glee and giddiness shining in his eyes.

He never opened up about just how he came to control the ghosts, except with the same answer each time Frank asked: “Gosh, Frankie, don’t you know it’s rude to ask about people’s pasts?” Then, he would grin again, and the glitter would return to his eyes, and he would start talking about something else.

Turns out, Gee likes the same bands Frank does, and the same comics and movies too. He tried to get Frank to sing a Metallica song with him, but he adamantly refused, saying that he didn’t sing. That was a lie. Frank did sing, but he didn’t like the sound of his own voice and wasn’t willing to share it with someone who was practically a stranger.

Without so much as a warning, Gee ducks into a building and yanks Frank along with him. He finally releases his hold on Frank’s arm, if only to make another one of those gestures. The lights in the building flicker to life, weak but giving them enough light to see.

“C’mon, Frankie, over here!” Gee calls, already halfway across the room. 

Frank jogs after him, dodging dusty, stiff racks of overpriced park merchandise. By the time he reaches Gee, the guy is opening up some sort of compartment and gingerly pulling a guitar out of it.

Upon seeing the brand laid upon the squared-off headstock, Frank gasps and immediately wraps his hands around the smooth rosewood neck. It's a Martin acoustic; he’s been wanting to get his hands on one of these for years, and has nearly saved enough money for one. This, though, is even better than a brand-new one; it looked like an authentic Martin from the seventies. Gee surrenders the instrument without hesitation.

Frank sits, supporting the body of the guitar on his legs. Not waiting to be prompted, Frank tests the tuning—delighted to find that it is just how he needs it—and begins to play one of his own songs.

He tunes out Gee, who is sitting right in front of him, and just pays attention to his playing. He was still working this one out, so it wasn’t anywhere near perfect, but, well, it was presentable enough.

Somewhere in the middle of the song, Frank begins to zone out, aware of nothing but the feeling of the ridged metal strings digging into his fingertips and the sound coming from the guitar’s sturdy body. He improvises a few notes here and there, wondering absently about how well they would work in the actual song.

Frank lets the last melancholy chord ring out, finally looking up at Gee. He seems almost to be in a trance, eyes closed and features relaxed.

“That was good,” Gee begins, sounding almost sleepy. “I love listening to guitars. Is that an original song?”

Frank nods, his fingers picking at the strings without letting any sound resonate. It's a nervous habit of his.

Gee stretches, the joints in his back popping. “Y’know, Frankie, usually I don’t like telling people why I can speak to the ghosts. It scares everyone away.” Gee speaks slowly, staring down at his overgrown nails. “But, I don’t think you’re gonna leave. You’re not scared of anything. You won’t run, I just know it.”

He doesn't like the way Gee’s voice started to sound. It's sad, and cracking, like he's about to reveal his biggest secret. Frank doesn't want him to be sad. He sets the guitar down at his side.

Gee tugs at one of the strands of his stringy, greasy hair, still not meeting Frank’s eyes. “Frankie, I… ten years ago I wasn’t the best person. I was in a, a gang, you know? And sometimes we did some bad stuff. I didn’t always get involved in the heavier stuff, because I was still a kid. But, the day I turned fifteen, our leader decided I was old enough. I tried to resist him, but he told me he’d kill me if I didn’t take the knife.” Frank feels his blood run cold. “I don’t remember it all that much. It was all kind of a blur, but I remember being scared. After, though…” Gee looks down as he speaks, voice shaking.

But not in regret, Frank notices. It's a more scared, uncertain tone, as if Gee doesn't want to keep speaking. Frank scoots closer.

“There was so much blood, Frankie,” Gee whispers, wetting his lips. “And, and I was so terrified and it was so bad. I… I killed someone, Frankie.” He finally looks up, then, letting Frank see the tears welling up in his eyes and the trembling of his lower lip. “I didn’t wanna do it. I swear, I _didn’t_ wanna do it. But I, I was forced to. I couldn’t choose. I ran away that night, Frankie, and now I’m here. It’s not so bad. The ghosts don’t mind, and they don’t care that I was a murderer. _Am_ a murderer.” His face crumples, and he lets out a sob.

“Shit, hey, Gee, it’s okay, you didn’t wanna do it, it’s n-not your fault,” Frank says, crawling over to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. He was never good at comforting people, due to his own callous nature, but he couldn’t just let him despair on his own.

Gee lifts his head, wet eyes wide and lips parted in shock. “You… don’t…” He trails off, more tears spilling down his sculpted cheeks.

Frank understands what he was saying, though, and hesitates only a moment before wrapping Gee in a hug. He gasps, and stiffens for a moment before burying his face into Frank’s shoulder. His body shakes as he cries, letting out what has to be years of pent-up regret and anger.

They sit like that for a few minutes, Frank murmuring the same words over and over and trying to comfort Gee. Soon enough, though, Gee lifts his head and pulls a few inches away from Frank’s body. Frank tries not to feel disappointed at the loss of contact.

Gee stares into Frank’s eyes for a moment, then glances downward—at his lips?—and back up again. “Frankie, can. Can I—” but Frank is already nodding, knowing what he's trying to say.

Their lips meet, both chapped and dry from the chilly air but still plain _good_. Frank knows that he shouldn’t be doing this, that Gee isn't mentally stable, that he shouldn’t be taking advantage of his vulnerability like this, but… he can't stop. Frank lets his forehead tilt forward as he tames a breath, resting on Gee’s. It's warm, and so painfully nice, he never wants it to stop.

He lets Gee pull him closer, almost into his lap. It begins to get more heated, and Frank lets his hands roam over Gerard’s back. He tenses when Frank goes near his lower back, though, so he backs off and rests his hands over his warm shoulder blades. Gee ducks his head lower, and Frank whines at the loss, only to gasp as he begins to make his mark on the space just below Frank’s jaw. He presses into the contact, nails digging into Gee’s shirt.

He lifts off his neck to take a breath, and moves his head back up. This time, the kiss is more fierce, passion and heat fueling his movements. They're practically rutting against each other by now. One of Gee’s hands moves from where it was cupped against Frank’s soft waist—when did it get there?—and Gee opens his mouth to let Frank in.

Almost as if he's trying to keep his attention, but, well, Frank wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Gee begins to whisper things each time he came up for breath, only a few words or syllables at a time.

“I-I got-ta tell ya,” he gasps. “I,” a hand begins skittering up Frank’s shirt, pressing into his back, “don’t m-mind-” Gee’s other arm moves back around Frank, but almost seems to embrace him. “-k-killing.” The last word is nothing more than a ghost of a breath, so quiet that it's hardly even audible. Frank, for one, thinks he's hearing Gee wrong.

Gee’s hand, the one that is on his back, slides out of his shirt and rises. Frank groans and tries to go closer.

“Fran- _kie_ ,” Gee whimpers, the last syllable rising in pitch as Frank catches Gee’s lower lip gently between his teeth. “I-I thin-k I lov-ve you.”

There was nothing Frank could do but inhale sharply, eyes fluttering open to meet Gee’s awestruck gaze. He didn’t expect that. Good God, he didn’t expect that from someone he’d just met hardly an hour ago.

Just as he's about to speak, Gee shushes him with a chaste kiss. All of a sudden, the arms around him tense and jolt, yanking him closer. He feels something break through the skin in his back, then his front, and there is a sick gasp of breath from Gee.

Then, there is a horrid, burning pain tearing through his middle, both him and Gee letting out cries of searing agony at the same time. Frank can'y breathe.

He looks down, and nearly blacks out right then. Sticking right out of his chest, and plunging into Gee’s, is a serrated blade, slick with his own blood. One of Frank’s own shaking hands touches the blade, moving of its own accord. The movements are sluggish at first, but become faster as his panic rises.

“Gee, Gee, what the, Gee, _fuck_ , what—” Frank is cut off by something bubbling up in his throat. It's hot, and metallic, and holy fuck, it's _blood_ , he's choking on his own blood. A whine escapes, terrified and wet.

“Frankie, I, I love y-you so-so muc-ch, you, you know th-that right? I, want you to, to know, I-I’m done killing, now. I’ve d-done too much, I l-love you, I don’t wanna live with-thout y-you, so, so we can, we can die t-togeth-er,” Gee stammers, stumbling through syllables with tears cascading down his face.

Gee’s breath hitches as he stares wide-eyed at the blood dripping from Frank’s lips. His lips tremble, and his brows knit together, and he dives forward in a desperate, panicky kiss. Frank doesn't want to kiss him, God, every time Gee moves the blade just tears more through his innards and now he can’t even breathe, but… he surrenders, letting his bloodstained mouth fall open.

He falls forward against Gee, mashing their lips together. He knows he's going to die, he knows he won't make it another hour. He is already fading. He's mad, God, he's mad, but he doesn't want to spend his last moments in agony. He wants something good.

Frank’s body stops supporting him in the next few seconds, and his head goes cloudy. Gee falls with him, wrapping a weak arm around Frank to pull him even closer. His body inches forward on the blade, and he retches against Gee’s cheek. His blood spatters the boy’s cheek, staining the perfect paleness with dirty red.

His eyes aren't going to stay open anymore, and he memorizes Gee’s pretty face before he lets his lids fall shut.

“Frankie, Frankie, do you love me, please, I love you, don’t go yet, wait for me,” Gee babbles, his tears dripping onto Frank’s face and washing away the blood. Saltiness joins the awful metallic taste in his mouth.

“Y-yea, I, luh’ya,” Frank slurs, trying to catch a breath. He can hardly feel Gee’s lips on his anymore, hardly feel the hands ghosting his sides. He tries to hold on for a little longer, but he can feel himself fading.

With the last of his strength, Frank circles his arms around Gee’s and tugs him so that their chests are flush against each other. Gee whimpers, high and weak, and buries his face again in Frank’s shoulder. He seems to know that Frank can’t hang on to the scraps of his life for any longer. He sobs.

“I, I’ll s-see ya on th-the other side, Frankie,” Gee says, his voice wavering and becoming weaker by the second.

Frank makes a “mhm” noise in agreement. He feels his heart slow, the blood still leaking through his teeth and making even more of a mess of both of them.

Gee whines and hugs Frank tighter as he grows even weaker, his body finally having enough and giving out on him. Both of them are just about gone at this point, and they both know it. Frank moves his head so that his chin is resting on Gee’s shoulder.

They go just like that, breaths slowing in a sort of surreal synchronization. Their hearts beat as one, in that final moment as Frank breathes out for the last time. Gee’s shaking, thin form follows him not a second later, both limping off into the afterlife. _Together_.

**Author's Note:**

> wowie that was a... rollercoaster ride. geddit. geddit. coz. this is set. in an amusement park. hah. im not fuckin funny  
> a lot of this was written while on a coffee high so my judgement of how good it is is probably skewed but thats ok  
> so uh for all yall that know my other stuff. im rewriting stranger creatures. its good now. im actually good at writing now. stay tuned for new updates in that series like, soon. bc theyre coming.  
> ok bye have a nice day


End file.
